


sense and sensibility

by kitchensink (orphan_account)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Neurodivergent Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, i'll be updating the tags more as it progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kitchensink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you'll go upward<br/>and i'll go down<br/>i'll see you in hell when we die"</p><p>(Alternatively titled: How to cope with being gutted alive by someone who you kind-of-sort-of trusted and how to forgive them for such an act)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. turn to the booze (alternatively titled: a taste of what's happening)

Alana sits with one leg crossed over the other and her hands folded on top of the table, her lips pursed, eyes narrowed. She’s thinking. She’s calculating. You slump back into your own chair and rub your jaw, mouth clenched closed. In the distance, you swear you can hear sirens and screaming. 

“Will, you know that you can’t keep doing this,” her eyes flick to where a bottle of whiskey is tipped over on it’s side, the last of it’s contents dripping into a tiny puddle on your table. You shrug a bit at her, sniffing but not saying a word. She sighs, tapping her nail against the wood before she suddenly stands. 

You follow her with your eyes as she picks the bottle and deposits it into the trash can. “You’re lucky to be alive, you know that? You can’t just waste away on alcohol and the evening news. When was the last time you went outside? Walked your dogs? Anything?” Alana turns towards you, putting her hands on her hips. You ignore the way she stands - it’s different than before. Falling out of a window will do that to you, you suppose.

You shift around, pushing yourself up so you can sit correctly for a brief second before you lean over the table and support your head with your hands, elbows against the table. “Alana, please, I just… really need some space right now,” you say eventually, not at all shocked at how rough your voice sounds. 

“You’ve been saying that for the past six months.” Again, you shift, turning your head to look at her again, eyes narrowing. “You don’t understand, then,” you say, hoping for some fight in your voice though none shows up. Alana rolls her eyes but says nothing, snatching her keys and turning towards the door. 

Just as she’s about to leave, she stops, a light sigh escaping her. “When you want to talk, you have my number. I’ll be back tomorrow,” and she’s gone, you can hear her car revving up.

You don’t pick up the phone that night, and when she arrives the next morning, you’re nursing a hangover while shifting through your nearly empty cabinet for the last of a bottle of vodka that you know is there.


	2. dispatching (alternatively titled: hallucinations about when you ate human aren't all that fun)

Nightmares. You've come to think of them more as night terrors than anything - the feeling of slippery, slick guts sliding out of your body as you try and stuff them back inside, the steely eyes of someone betrayed, feeling your eyes grow heavy even when you try your hardest to keep them open.

They leave you lying in a puddle of sweat, staring your ceiling fan as it spins and pushes the stale air around. It's hot, even if outside snow is still falling in fat puffs from the sky. The moon casts shadows of monsters onto your creme colored walls, distorting your coat into a man, your lamp into an animal with antlers. Obviously, you didn't drink enough to make your mind swim with blackness. Shame.

You know that just outside your door and down the hall, Alana lays asleep on the couch, her hand tucked under her chin as she splays out onto her stomach. Really, she should be sleeping in the bed, but when you offered last night, half way to oblivion, she shook her head and shoved you into the mattress. The woman is too headstrong for her own good. 

Deciding it would be better to get up and make something of yourself, you roll to the side, grunting slightly as you push yourself into a slouchy sitting position. Beside you, the alarm clock you keep on the desk beams 3:29 AM. This information does little to destroy the suddenly blooming thought of breakfast - you haven't had a proper meal in what feels like ages, most of the time you can barely stomach the idea of anything passing your lips unless you yourself had prepared it (which you rarely do.)

You're extremely careful as you creak your way down the hall, curls falling into your face and brushing against your way-past-stubbly jaw. Vaguely, you think that maybe you should get out of the house like Alana has been suggesting, but then you remember that she could just cut your hair in your kitchen. With that stuffed into the back of your mind, you start your adventure towards the pantry, tiptoeing through the living room so as not to wake your guest.

It turns out you only have a quarter of a box of Rice Crispies left, and no milk. However, you have yogurt, so you dump both into a bowl and mix it around. While it's an odd experience, it tastes okay. You seat yourself at the kitchen table and shovel it into your mouth, trying to keep your mind blank.

That doesn't work well.

For a brief second, your mind turns to static, only to flicker back on as you put the spoon into your mouth - except it's not yogurt and cereal anymore. It's thick blood and bits of bone, hot on your tongue. Fear crashes over your shoulders, yanking you backwards - within seconds, your chair is on the floor, the spoon clattering away as you lay on your side and gag. You're shaking.

"Will?" The voice is not a comfort - it sounds broken and dead - it's owner appearing almost by magic by your side. You gag again, turning yourself so that your forehead presses against the cool wood tiling and you can more effectively empty the contents of your stomach. "Shit," says the voice again, sounding wobbly and distant.

You close your eyes tightly, trying to get yourself to sit up because laying around in blood vomit is disgusting. A hand falls onto your back - you shudder, assuming it's talons before you glance over your shoulder to see that it's simply the pale, slightly shaking hand of Alana. You squint at her, but say nothing. Somehow, you manage to sit up, turn around and lean against the wall. She stares at you, flicks her eyes at the vomit, but says nothing.

After she's cleaned up your mess and you've been sitting on the ground for what feels like hours, still trying to get the blood and bits of bone from your teeth with your fingers, Alana sits beside you. Her hand rests gently on your thigh, but she does nothing else. You keep your fingers in your mouth to pick at your teeth, get the bones out of the cracks, try and cover the taste of blood.

You don't move until the sun pools onto the floor through the window, and Alana's fallen sleep on your shoulder again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo!!! the first chapter got so much good feedback i was rlly surprised!!! the next chapter is gonna start Really forwarding the plot, this is just more set up. ty so much for reading!!


	3. antisocial (alternatively titled: a very nearly normal day)

By some miracle, Alana gets you to leave the house after the whole yogurt-blood-mouth-picking incident. In fact, she does more than that. She cuts your hair (choppy because her hands are shaking), forces you into the shower so you don't smell like rot, and manages to even get you to shave while she watches, perched on the edge of your bathtub to make sure you don't slit your throat. Seeing as you got an early start, the two of you are in her car by nine, and in town by ten. 

You had forgotten what the air outside of your little bubble smelt like. In the windows of shops, children show their parents brightly colored boxes of valentines that they wish to purchase for their classmates. Teenagers kiss beneath the canopy covers of coffee shop terraces. It all seems so peaceful, as if the world kept right on moving on while you stayed inside your hole and had drinking contests with ghosts. 

"This is nice," Alana says as she gently takes your hand in hers. The action is one you take as friendly, rather than with romantic intent. She's worried about you, thus her bringing you out, thus her hand holding. 

Slowly, you stride through the town, one hand holding Alana's and the other shoved into your coat pocket. It's almost normal. "It's better than stewing in a hot house," you admit, squinting at a group of teens who are huddled around the entrance to a store. "If not a little bit over crowded." She seems nearl ecstatic to have you speaking normally, though the only way you're made aware of it is her hand tightening briefly around yours.

By instinct, you both gravitate towards the small bookstore and coffee shop combo down in a thick knot of buildings. It's like the figurative breeding place for people like the two of you - broken, chewed up, in need of odd indie music and the smell of fresh coffee grounds. You keep an eye out as you push down the icy sidewalks, making sure that no monsters followed you out of your house or that certain faces don't appear. 

When you enter the shop, the smell of coffee smacks you across the face and you're made painfully aware that you woke up at an odd, early time. Your eyes droop sleepily as you're lead to the counter, letting "two coffees, black" fall off your tongue and rest on the counter like bricks. The barista has concern in her eyes as she slides Alana a coffee, then one to you. Without so much as a thanks, you take a drink, effectively scorching your mouth but also sending a sudden jolt down your spine. As you wander off, letting Alana's fingers slip from your own, you hear her sigh and thank the barista for you.

It isn't long before you find yourself in the medical section of the store, likely a place that you should stay away from. Your fingers brush spines of books as you flick your eyes over titles until they rest on one titled "The Human Heart." No hesitation dares pass your mind as you pull it from it's place on the shelf, flip it open and lean against the adjacent bookcase to read over some of the words. Ink blurs together eventually, all becoming a huge mass of letters that make no sense. 

But only briefly. They soon melt into different words, spelling out a letter rather than the anatomical details of the blood pushing organ. "I'm afraid that I can only write to you now," it says, printed letters turning into precise and careful cursive, "because I have been busy planning what we shall do when we finally face each other again." When you blink, they remain there.

In the watery distance you hear Alana ask you something. You wonder what she was doing there, but pay no mind, only continue reading, "Do try and arrive soon. I've missed you so." It fades into white, as if the pen it was written with ran out of ink suddenly. There are no pressure marks. As you pull yourself from the contents of the book and snap it closed, you realize that just a moment ago you were holding a cup of coffee. It seems to have been dropped to the floor and pooled in a dark brown stain on the carpet. Beside you, Alana is staring at it.

"You're shaking, Will."

"It's cold."

"You dropped your coffee." 

"I was distracted. If there were paper towels, I'd clean it up," you say, fishing around in your pocket and pulling out your wallet. "I'm going to go pay for this book."

The rest of your day is relatively uneventful. You and Alana get food, walk through various different shops, hell, you even laugh a few times. On the drive home, your palms are itching to open the book, but you keep it restrained until you reach your home. 

As you unlock the door, your dogs barking behind it, Alana asks if you need her to spend the night again. Considering it, you say yes, figuring it'd be a safer bet than leaving you alone after what happened earlier. However, it means that you have to wait until she's asleep until you can crack open the book and see if there is anything else in it. 

Thankfully, she goes to sleep early. You insist that she sleep in your bed, and she agrees on the terms that you sleep there, too. It's hardly a battle, mostly because you want her to close the door, but the outcome is rather nice either way. As soon as you're sure she's asleep, you pull out the hardcover and start to flip through it.

You find nothing. Absolutely nothing, just long passages about the heart. Hours crawl by as you scan the pages for any inkling of what you swore you read earlier, your pulse steadily increasing and breathing becoming labored. 'I've missed you so,' it said. Well, who missed you? Who could ever miss you.

Just as you're about to slam it closed and call it a night, one word catches your eye. 'Paris.' It only takes those five letters for you two pull out your laptop and book a plane ticket for the city. The flight is on Thurday. It's Sunday. You're sure that the word is a sign.

As you crawl into your bed, the clock beams a happy 4:56 AM. Alana stirs, but only turns and gently drapes a hand onto your arm in her sleep. 

For the first time in nearly two and a half years, you sleep without a nightmare. Instead, you dream of a familiar, yet distorted voice saying, "I've missed you, Will," again and again as planes take off into the sky, never to be seen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changed a few tags on the fanfic... hope you enjoy this!!! gettin into some PLOT! 
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> (note: the letter he read was a hallucination incase that wasnt clear)


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